


In Which There is a Crisis of Confidence, a Death, and Hope for Resolution

by CaelumLapis



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-13
Updated: 2020-06-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:00:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24697972
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CaelumLapis/pseuds/CaelumLapis
Summary: A woman, her body proud and tall, pauses in the doorway. An expression of curious disapproval is on her face. “J’onn, what are you two–“
Kudos: 1





	In Which There is a Crisis of Confidence, a Death, and Hope for Resolution

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer is, I don’t own them, not even a little.

From a distance, it could be a strange blur of color, something stirring up the clouds as it moves back and forth. It would cause a sane and ordinary person to perhaps set aside their orange juice slowly, blink a few times, and then resolve to quit orange juice altogether. 

Upon closer inspection, conducted primarily by passing birds, the blur becomes man-shaped, pacing the clouds with hands clasped behind him. He appears to be deeply thoughtful, or possibly experiencing uncomfortable events in his digestive system. In either case, he is quite sympathetic, a curl bouncing over his forehead as he strides back and forth. 

His muscles appear tensed, profiled in the contrasts of sunlight and shadow. His face is attractive by conventional human standards, and yet disgruntled. His lower lip protrudes enough that a casual viewer might label it a sulk. His apparel is colorful and distinctive, skintight reds and blues, with gold accents. A slender silver-toned device curls around his ear, with a line curved down beside his mouth.

It is speaking to him, in tinny bursts of sound punctuated by static. He is outside of the usual range. 

“Where are you?”

For a moment he ignores the voice, but not effectively. His eyebrows contort, and the pout sneaks away to reveal very white teeth.

“I don’t want to talk about it.” His response is taut, stretched across and barely containing hints of a great injustice, a matter both tremendous and worrying.

The reply is a very present and heavy pause, filling the sky around him with uneasy quiet. The man’s shoulders ease first, followed by a slow unwinding across his arms and down his back.

“Fine,” he retorts, confronting the pregnant silence and all of its implications. “But only because you kept pushing.” His stride loosens, a large hand rubbing over his face. There is a certain weariness that creeps into the corners of his eyes.

Silence answers him, with occasional crackling hisses of noise. 

~~~

This structure is not as open as the sky, or as brightly lit. It is flanked by endless consoles, information streaming across their screens. It is a brain of wires and plastic, endlessly thoughtful.

At the center of these displays is a larger screen, images flickering on and off, changing with each flash. Cities, buildings, people. Empires. 

The figure at the console is as dark as the other was bright. He is cloaked in an absence of light, reflected in the grim seriousness of his face. A mask conceals his eyes. His hands are protected by black gauntlets. 

His fingers are in almost constant motion, on the keyboard and beside it. The keyboard calls up images, video feeds, news links, scrolling lists of information. He fondles a supple red ball, rolling it back and forth against the desk and occasionally squeezing it so tightly that it disappears from view.

“Batman?” The voice belongs to a stately figure with green skin and eyes of interesting depth and hue. 

Batman holds up a hand plainly indicating silence, and then curls his fingers, beckoning. His attire does remind one of a large bat. This name is fitting. 

“…can’t believe he had the nerve to…” The voice sounds angry, projected into the room from a metallic device on the console. The strength of the sound fluctuates, indicating movement.

The stately figure approaches the console, his cape rustling whisper-quiet around him. He listens, his expression curious. Batman remains seated, rolling the ball back and forth across the desk. His expression is grim, with perhaps a subtle hint of humor. It is difficult to assign amusement to one so forbidding, so very serious, as this man garbed in the guise of a creature of night. 

“…I don’t care if he’s the President of the United States, he’s still an idiot…”

A woman, her body proud and tall, pauses in the doorway. An expression of curious disapproval is on her face. “J’onn, what are you two–“

“Shh,” hiss the two figures, listening attentively. J’onn motions her closer and then leans toward the console slightly. She joins them after a moment.

“…and then he said that blue is not my color! It _is_ my color, the color of my House…”

J’onn’s expression becomes sincerely perplexed, his voice concerned. “It frightens me that he is quite sincere in his feelings over this.”

Batman crushes the red ball in his fist, tiny slivers of red shrinking slowly until they disappear from view. He says nothing.

The woman crosses her arms over her chest. “I thought we had all agreed not to point out certain sensitive subjects, such as our… choices in colors and uniform designs. Ever.”

Batman releases the ball, sending it tumbling off the desk as he eyes her for a long moment. “We did, Diana.”

“…will _not_ be insulted by somebody who wears _green_ and _purple_ together…” the console hisses, with a florid burst of static at the end. 

She holds Batman’s gaze, a silent cold war between them. After a minute, J’onn waves his hand in their general direction, irritation evident in the movement. “Your tensions are distracting me.”

Diana steps away from Batman, turning her face toward the screen. She mutters something unkind about the nature of men with youthful male apprentices in close quarters. Batman grimly ignores her, his hand closing reflexively over empty air as if it misses the supple red ball. 

“…and _another thing_ , I– oh…” The voice shifts abruptly from anger to concern. 

Batman eyes the console for a moment, and then presses a key. “Is there a problem?”

“I–yeah. A bird.” There is the sound of movement, his voice becoming mournful. “It flew too close. I think it got distracted. It hit my face. I– there’s no heartbeat.” 

J’onn moves back, as if he does not mean to but cannot help the need behind it. “I have other matters that require my attention.” He is gone quickly.

Batman presses the key again. “Bring it back with you. Batman, out.” The light on the console flashes off. 

Diana eyes Batman again, previous tension easing from her stance before she leaves the room. Batman rises from the chair, leaning down to retrieve the red ball from the floor. He returns to the chair, squeezing the ball in his fist.


End file.
